you give it to me in words of one syllable, so I can finally grasp it and get on with my life?”
Her voice had risen, and in the close confines of the Jaguar’s interior they sounded shockingly loud. He looked away.
“Hell, I’ve said too much already. I’m a bastard, honey, and you’re better off without me. There’s your simple answer, so let’s just leave it at that.” He reached for the door. “Come on, let’s see if Jackson’s here and get some answers from him.”
Without waiting to see if she was following him, in one swiftly fluid movement he got out of the car and started up the cracked walk to the bungalow.
Bailey didn’t move. She’d told him she’d come to get some answers about her sister’s whereabouts, and that was true. But if she was honest with herself, after they found out where Angelica was, there was still another mystery she needed to find some answers to, another woman she wanted to ask him about.
Maria Salazar was dead. If she existed at all, it was as a ghost. There was no reason why she should still have any power over Sullivan.
But she did, Bailey thought fearfully. She didn’t know why she was so certain about that, but she was. Maria Salazar had taken Sullivan away from her, and she was going to find out why.
She looked up. His hands in his pockets, he was waiting at the bungalow’s front door, and with sudden resolve she got out of the car. Her determination wavered for a moment, but then she set her shoulders and started up the concrete walk. Even as she did, she saw him slip something out of his pocket.
He was breaking in, she thought in faint shock. She quickened her pace and reached him just as the door swung open.
“What are you doing?” she hissed, nervousness overlaying the jumble of conflicting emotions she’d just been experiencing. “That’s breaking and entering, Sullivan—we could both lose our licenses!”
“This was stuck in the mail slot.”
His voice was curt. He handed her a business card and she took it from him reluctantly. It bore the name of an S. Wilkes, who was apparently a regional sales director for some unknown company, and a phone number. Flipping it over impatiently, she saw a scrawled message.
“Hank—missed you at the last two meetings. Call me.”
“Wilkes is a friend from AA,” Sullivan said. “Hank’s mentioned him once or twice.” He frowned. “Those meetings are his lifeline, Bailey. He doesn’t miss them. There’s something wrong here.”
She met his eyes. “I agree, but it’s pretty obvious what it is,” she said, trying not to sound brusque. “He’s fallen off the wagon, Sullivan. Your boy Jackson’s probably out on a bender.”
He turned from her abruptly, his expression unreadable. “I don’t believe that. I’m going in.”
Before she could say another word, he stepped across the threshold, and without even having seen him reach for it, she saw that his gun was in his hand. She looked apprehensively over her shoulder. It was midafternoon, and apart from an old man a few houses down dozing on his porch, the street was deserted. Stifling her annoyance, she slipped quickly in after him and closed the door quietly behind her.
The minuscule front hall opened immediately onto a cramped, untidy kitchen. On the counter an empty bottle lay on its side, and the broken shards of a smashed glass were strewn nearby on the linoleum floor.
“Hell.” In front of her, Sullivan slowly holstered his gun. He turned to her, his mouth tight. “Looks like you were right, doesn’t it? I’ll check the bedroom in case he’s sleeping it off in there.”
Shrugging in resignation, he started to step across the broken glass, but then he stopped, his glance sharpening on the fallen bottle on the counter. He set it upright, turning it so that the label faced them. She looked at him, confused, and saw the broad shoulders stiffen under the impeccably cut jacket.
“Hank’s not a rye drinker. Somebody didn’t do their homework,” he said grimly.
His hand went to his holster again, and all of a sudden the Armani suit might just as well have been fatigues, and the small, untidy kitchen an ominously silent jungle. He hadn’t put his former profession behind him at all, Bailey thought with quick insight. He reacted like a soldier. Just below the casually lazy surface of the man was a tense alertness, and at the first sign of trouble his military instincts took over.
Except she couldn’t see what had aroused his suspicions.
“He’s an alcoholic,” she said dismissively. “If he wanted a drink badly enough he’d break into the cooking sherry.”
“Maybe he would, at that. But he still wouldn’t choose a grain-based alcohol, and if he had, he’d be lying on the floor with that glass, his throat swollen closed,” Sullivan snapped. “He’s even allergic to bread, for God’s sake. This is some kind of setup.”
“A setup for what? To make it look like the man fell off the wagon?” She stared at him in frustration. “For crying out loud, Sully, it doesn’t make sense. For one thing, who knew we were coming here today? Who would have expected you to barge in illegally the way you just did?” A strand of hair had escaped from her clip, and she blew it away from her eyes with an impatient breath. “Let’s check out the rest of the house before we jump to any conclusions. Maybe he’s in the bedroom with an empty bottle of vodka, sleeping it off. Maybe the rye was for a friend.”
Without waiting for him to respond, she pushed past him with more annoyance than the situation warranted. With a muttered oath, he grabbed her arm and stopped her.
“I’m armed. You’re not. I’ll take point position and you bring up the rear,” he said tightly. “In fact, I’d prefer it if you stayed right here.”
“Forget it. I’m a real woman, not one of your bimbos,” she retorted. “If you’re going to lead, lead, but I’m coming with you.”
He wasn’t happy about it, she knew. Too bad, she thought as she shadowed him from room to room, hanging back a little as he cautiously entered each one. She wasn’t happy with the situation, either, but her reasons were harder to figure out. Why did his loyalty to the man who worked for him, however misguided she might see it as, irritate her so? They entered the bathroom, and she was jolted out of her thoughts.
“Wait a minute,” she said as Sullivan turned to leave. “There’s something odd here.”
“What?” He shrugged and looked around. “There’s nothing out of place.”
“That’s just it,” Bailey said slowly. “Hank’s a single guy, and the rest of the house is as untidy as you’d expect it to be. But this bathroom’s immaculate. The taps actually sparkle, for heaven’s sake.”
“And the floor’s been washed.” He looked down, and then over at the towel rack. She followed his glance.
“Not even a facecloth,” she said, frowning. “What does he use to dry himself with?”
“A towel, like everyone else does.” His eyes darkened. “But towels can be used to mop up blood, too.”
She felt an icy chill settle over her as his words sank in, and it was all she
